Sunshine
by cleo.rivers
Summary: I am John Murphy: cold, cruel, detestable—and let's not forget stupid. I was born and raised in the Arrow Station air filter slums, I am the son of a dying race, and I am a murderous psychopath. I am not a monster, but I have done monstrous things. I am exactly who the Ark made me to be. Murphy backstory.
1. Prologue

I hate hiking. Hiking. It was one of those ancient, foreign words they forced down schoolchildren's throats back on the Ark, just like weather, or democracy, in some sick bid to pretend the Earth wasn't a desolate wasteland. Which, apparently, it wasn't.

It means a long walk through the woods. It was one of the many words I never once imagined I'd have a chance to hate, just like rain, or mud, or Grounder.

I suppose I should be more grateful, everything considered. Just trust me when I say you don't know the half of it. It's not all pretty sunsets and fresh air.

It was a mile from the drop ship to the nearest source of fresh water. Two miles to water Clarke cleared for bathing in— something about not drinking ass-water, but seems pretentious for a bunch of kids living in the forest — five miles out to the berry fields, ten miles to any decent game, and almost twenty to the Grounders.

On bad days, I sometimes wonders how many things I've tasted for the last time. There wasn't much variety with the Ark's algae-based derivative mush, but at least it wasn't stringy panther meat, or hallucinogenic acorns, or berries that taste like pulp and dirt.

Mud eternally cake my boots and pants, and the thin, winding trail through the woods squelches with every step. The mud drags at every step, and the constant patter of rain has soaked my hair and jacket.

"It's been raining for three days straight," I said.

There was a grumble of consensus behind me.

"Enjoy it while you can," said Jaha. "There's a lot less rain where we're headed."

So yes, I hate hiking. I hate being surrounded by eighteen-or-younger males who haven't showered in three months, I hate living on five hundred calories a day, I hate the Ark council survivors who think they can crash-land a camp and take over the Earth, I hate all the nuts and berries and the inevitable diarrhea that follows, I hate feeling grateful for being accepted back among humanity instead of having my fingernails torn out by Grounders, and I hate hiking eight hours a day through mud and rain.

And yet here I am, marching my dumb ass through the forest with a madman on the longest, dumbest hike in existence.

I am not a monster, but I have done monstrous things. I am exactly who the Ark made me to be.


	2. Chapter 1

I am John Murphy, son of the recently-belated Martha Murphy of Textiles and Alex Murphy of Aeration, son of the Arrow Station air filter slums, son of a dying race, one who is sick of circling through space in a tin can, and I am a murderous psychopath.

There— feels better to have that all out in the open, doesn't it? Sure feels like a load off my chest.

If the council has had their way, I'm sure no one on the Ark has heard of what I've done. And I'm honestly not sure if I care either way.

It began when I discovered the great lie. Like a great truth, a great lie isn't just one idea or a handful of facts, and it certainly isn't so easy to prove or express as either of those. It's a belief, something intrinsic that greets you when you wake up in the morning and is there whispering in your ear when you fall asleep at night. It haunts those still, silent moments through the day, hiding in shadows. For me, it was a collection of unavoidable observations that led up to this one great lie.

I was going to die on this Ark. I was going to live every day of my miserable existence in the same grey wasteland. And yet, somehow worse, my people were dying — draining out like dust through exhaust pipes as the cold, greedy fingers of the Ark stole the warmth from their blood. I was going to die on this Ark, and every authority on board was going to help me do it.

My story began the day I decided to defy death by embracing it, and it began again today.

Today I covered my eyes against the painful light as my cell creaked open on underused hinges.

A pair of guards entered and ordered me to stand.

"It's still three months until my float date."

I wasn't angry, just a little disappointed. Would have enjoyed the extra time to brood over my sins, that's all.

"Inmates will remain silent until prompted. Collect your things."

There was nothing to collect, which the guard seemed to realize shortly after saying.

"Where am I going?"

"You have been reassigned."

"I'm not floating?"

"Not today."

The first guard approached me and secured handcuffs on my wrists. There was a chain between them long enough to move my hands, but the guard locked the wrist manacles together behind my back before leaving the cell.

As the guard led me roughly through the hall, past rows of gawking eyes, I realized he was lying, slightly.

There was a unique architectural history to the Skybox— retrofitted cells. In the early days, the prison had been half of one nation's independent Station, a sort of Space Jail for deserving criminals. Each cell had been equipped with steel doors, tiny dimensions, and an atmosphere of unending doom. After the Union, most of the jail had been re-purposed, and the remains- the Skybox- was only used for juvenile criminals and adults awaiting the rare trial.

It only took the Ark twenty years to decide to change the steel doors to open bars, combine cells into joined living spaces, and add a central communal space for meals and recreation after discovering that juvenile delinquents trying to re-enter the workforce after extended solitary confinement spells were completely, terrifyingly insane. As it turns out, solitary confinement is actually a rather brutal form of torture. Again, it only took our lovely Ark democracy twenty years to piece this together.

Every cell was converted to a more humane design… All except one. The last solitary cell was saved for the worst, the most evil, and the most dangerous. The prisoners the Ark Council decided should never see the light of day. Which, of course, was why they had given it to me.

 _I_ wasn't being re-assigned.

My _cell_ was being re-assigned.


End file.
